BLANKPAGES
CONTENTS GET IN TOUCH 4 WELCOME... 5 COVER ARTIST 6 FICTION 12 BLANKVERSE 18 SPOTLIGHT 22 THIS MONTH’S MP3 28 FEATURE 34 BLANKPICKS 44 BLANK MEDIA RECOMMENDS 32 CREDITS 48
Sunflowers by Blanka Ciok The impact that an individual can have on a group generally diminishes the larger an organization becomes. Can one persons’ opinion or vote really influence or make a difference? It is sometimes easy to forget that the group ethic consists of nothing other than hundreds and thousands of individual voices and that this multitude also comprises solitude.
YOU ARE LISTENING TO... Mammoth Mountain by Caro Snatch
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BlankSounds music@blankmediacollective.org blankpages copyright Š2006-2010 Blank Media Collective unless otherwise noted. Copyright of all artworks remains with artist. 4
Welcome... The dust is settling after the brilliant celebrations of Blank Media Collective’s fourth birthday (in the form of BlankWeekend; thank you to everyone who performed, helped to realise the weekend, came along, engaged or talked about it!) and the work has started on BLANKSPACE, due to officially open at the end of January 2011 with BlankExpression, an open-call, anything goes exhibition to kick off the year. Here at blankpages, we’re looking for a new Music Editor, as our virtuoso guitar legend Dan Bridgwood-Hill must sadly leave us. He will be missed, but perhaps you are reading this, maybe you can fill his (rather large) shoes? Get in touch! On the subject of music, we’re pleased to be sharing caro snatch with you this month, especially the opportunity to publish her lyrics alongside her music. Her album is well worth a purchase, if you like the sound of her featured track. So, here we are once again at the end of the year. Stock up on grit, drink a gluwien and we’ll see you in the new year! We’ll be back on 1st January with issue 30 - how grown up!
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John Leyland, blankpages Editor
Blanka Ciok After a number of years spent travelling and engaging with people from many different cultures, it became Blanka’s belief that imagery is more powerful than the written or spoken word; as the visual arts can transcend the boundaries set up by language. The picture has always been part of her life and it is through imagery that she expresses herself, the moment of her existence and rationalizes the world at large. In the production of her artwork she has strived for an aesthetic which can be understood and appreciated by everyone, regardless of culture, class or educational background. This body of work is partly inspired by conversations and theories based on philosophy, the theory of existence and axiology. Ostensibly the artworks are meditative reflections of melancholy, isolation and insulation, but they are also concerned with the passing of time and the solitude of the individual. To create her art she uses a variety of techniques which include state of the art lambda print technology,
photography and digital imaging processes. Despite the contemporary nature of these techniques Blanka’s artworks are equally enriched with symbolisms that contain historical art references. Each of these prints evoke a dream-like surreality and utilize subtly muted ink tones to amplify a sense of drama. These creative methods articulate a degree of containment, isolation and abandon - concepts that are both deeply personal and comprehensively universal in meaning. Blanka was born in 1978 in Poland. She holds a Master of Science degree from the University of Technology. She has been self employed since 2005. She has designed and manufactured handmade stained glass for individual orders. Blanka specializes in a wide variety of fields including web designing, digital media as well as photography.
The Last Station Human perceived
existence both
is
collec-
tively and on an individual basis. Even though many people may pass through our lifetime, the feelings of
See more of Blanka’s work at www.blankaciok.com
isolation or loneliness have a universal currency. Here the desolate spirit is literally cast aside, estranged on murky, stagnant waters.
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Tempora Time is forever transitory, shifting like granules of sand contained in a clepsydra of the universe. People searching may
for
happiness
contemplate
going
back in time, but in doing so they neglect the present at the same time. Whilst we understand our lives backwards, we must live them forwards. However, because we exist only in the present we never reach the plenary repose when we gain absolute retrospective insight into the meaning of life and history. It is this frustration that summarizes the human condition.
Golden Fish
The Moon The effects of time and erosion
on
man-made
surfaces
creates
charac-
teristics which can hint at other hidden worlds. Quite instinctively,
the
human
mind tries to make sense out of the illogical shapes, surfaces and patterns that it confronts by identifying these abstract symbols and transforming them into representational forms. This artwork subtly references Rene Magritte’s ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’ (‘this is not a pipe’) and amalgamates portraiture and landscape art together.
Seahorse Inspired by the dramatic skyscapes and seascapes of the wharf at dusk, this piece aims to replicate the moody allure and hypnotic pulse of a lighthouse signalling from a distant harbour. The artwork is visually anchored by the symbolism of the seahorse - a motif which is gently echoed throughout the canvas.
ANGEL OF THE NORTH By Virginia Moffatt
Illustration by Michael Thorp
Living in Edgware brought Freya one tiny advantage: a guaranteed seat on the tube. “You must be grateful for the small things”, Dad always said, thinking perhaps of Granddad and his daily struggle in the mines, so Freya tried to. And at eight o’clock on a Monday morning, after a hard weekend partying, a seat all the way to the Angel was definitely a bright spot. As an added bonus, her journey also brought her glimpses of the road heading north - the knowledge that her two Angels were connected. From the top of the A1, the copper-coloured Angel sent a daily blessing which carried her all the way to her destination: the marble-white tube station in Islington. According to Tom at work, it had once been dark and dingy, a precarious platform perched in the middle of the electrified tracks, but she never quite believed him. Her Angel was always pristine and pure: a place of warmth and safety. She glanced down the carriage. Her section was about half-full; by the time they reached Golders Green, it would be standing room only. The woman with the dyed-blonde bob sat in her usual spot, not quite opposite Freya. Today she wore a bright red suit. She was reading an official-looking document, skimming through the pages and highlighting the odd paragraph.
She looked up, and seeing Freya’s gaze, gave a half smile: the London acknowledgement of a face seen often, but needing no further social interaction. The train sped past grey suburban houses, gardens full of plastic toys, washing lines waving underwear in the wind. Freya continued her perusal of her fellow passengers. Two girls sat next to the woman in red. They were dressed in white low-cut blouses and tight denim skirts that showed off their plump fake-tanned legs. Their voices resounded across the aisle; their gossip, punctuated with raucous laughter. A young man with greasy hair sat next to Freya, his head in an Isaac Asimov novel. Next to him sat an elderly couple. The man was reading from a thick book, while his wife was scanning a copy of Woman’s Weekly. “This is interesting,” he nudged her, “The Northern Line was the first to be built by boring deep underground, and to use electric traction.” “Yes, dear…,” she said, not looking up, “Fascinating.” Towards the middle of the carriage, a middle-aged woman, brown face wrinkled in misery, was confiding her work troubles to a friend. In the farthest corner of the coach a young family was settling down: mother, father, two boys and a girl, the children carrying orange
and purple backpacks. As the train increased in momentum, the boys careered up and down, till the youngest slipped on the floor in front of Freya. She reached her hand out to help him. He grabbed it, smiling an angelic smile, his brown eyes sizzling with impishness and ran off again. “Jafar!” His mother raised her eyes in apology. Freya waved it away. She watched as the woman adjusted her black hijab and gathered the children close to read a story. Conversations swirled around. “The Northern Line is thirty six miles long. Thirty six! Why that’s halfway to...” “Did you see Barry in drag? He borrowed Leslie’s boob tube and miniskirt, he looked a right…” “I said to Linda, what do you mean I’ve got to…” An ordinary Monday. Freya smiled and took “Bridget Jones’s Diary” out of her bag.
The man with the black rucksack got on at Colindale. He had a rugby player’s frame. His black beard straggled across his sallow brown skin, not quite thick enough to hide the pock-marks on his face. Freya’s eyes were drawn to the sight of him shuffling down the carriage. He sat down opposite her, next to the red-suited woman. The buzz died down, people shifted in their seats. Freya squirmed a little in hers. This was unfair. A few years ago, no-one would have given him a second glance. Now every eye was focussed on him, as he fiddled with the top of his rucksack. Leave it alone, please, don’t touch it. She willed her thoughts towards him, saw the woman in red with the same picture in her mind, the girls giggling a little less. But the man seemed unable to stop playing with the strap, muttering to himself as he did so. He’s probably just a
head-case, ignore him. As they rattled on towards Hendon Central, he sat back and closed his eyes. A communal hiss of relief went round the carriage. Freya went back to her book. The train began to fill up and the babble started again. At each stop, more people squeezed onboard; by Golders Green, the aisle was jammed full of commuters. The only evidence that the man was still there was the sight of his large feet wrapped around his bag, like a hen protecting an egg. He appeared to be muttering to himself. The train thundered down through Hampstead, down, down, down, into the darkness. “..the Hampstead lift-shaft is the deepest on the network and just beyond we get to the furthest point underground.” “…I mean what do you do, when someone comes out with that? It’s not like I can get a new job at my age…” Now other voices had joined in the chorus: voices that spoke Polish, Arabic, Japanese; voices speaking in a multitude of accents, American, German, Chinese. The whole world confined in a tube of metal, rushing into London. The train swayed in the blackness, the lights flickering on and off. Then, without warning, it came to a halt in the tunnel just outside Belsize Park. Freya kept her eyes focussed on her book: it was probably nothing to worry about. But they stayed still, for five minutes… six…seven… eight…nine…ten. The voices around her tailed off and the carriage fell silent, except for the quiet murmur of the man with the black rucksack. Perspiration and perfumes mixed in the air, creating an unpleasant aroma. One of the people standing moved to one side, giving Freya a glimpse of brown hands that had begun to touch the bag once more. The man moved his fingers about the dark cloth as if he was tending a sacred object. Freya wondered what he was saying, but it was impossible to make out the words, just a quiet whisper, wind in a still forest.
ANGEL
We’re miles below the ground, if that was a – no, she wouldn’t finish the thought, it was nonsense. He was just one of those sad Londoners, who meander along between appointments with officialdom looking for some purpose in life. All the same, she could see other people were beginning to look at the man with her eyes, one or two even moved further away from him. The intercom came on, “Screech... London… screech... apologises… screech… delay...” The rest was so muffled, Freya couldn’t make it out. “What did he say?” she asked her neighbour. “Not sure, something about an incident on the line.” That could mean anything from a broken-down train to a suicide, or things Freya did not want to think about. She shook her head, and fixed her eyes on her book. The man continued to whisper. People stirred in their seats. They didn’t look at each other. They didn’t look at him. The lights flickered off. The tunnel was dark – the absolute darkness of a coal mine. Freya shivered. Her grandfather had crawled through tunnels smaller than this. How had he stood the proximity of other bodies, the blackness, the sense the walls were closing in? She swallowed, breathing the stale air into her lungs, where it rested, like an infection. The intercom came on again, slightly clearer, “Sorry for the continued …screech… Trouble with…screech… ahead. We should be… screech… on our way soon.” “Did he say electrics?” Freya asked the man beside her. “I think so.” Don’t think it, don’t think it. Her hands were sweating and her heart was pounding. She was being ridiculous. She could hear Dad chiding her: “Don’t judge by how folks look.” She dragged her mind away from the images of that day in London. The images that everyone wanted
to forget: images that were impossible to shake off when sitting on a darkened tube train, hundreds of feet underground, opposite a man with a black rucksack. For God’s sake think of something else. A happy day. Think of a happy day. With a supreme effort, she wrested her thoughts away from maimed metal, to the day they lifted her metal angel for all the world to see. Now that was a day to remember, a “right old shindig”, as Dad said. A grumpy fifteen year old at the time, she’d moaned all the way there, till the sight of the cranes raising the Angel’s grooved copper body blew her teenage rage away. Dad didn’t bother to hide a tear, remembering the men who’d mined the earth beneath the Angel’s feet. For the first time in her life, Freya had felt part of something. So much so, that she was drawn back to watch a few days later as the wings were put in place, enfolding her in an embrace she had never quite left behind. Even now, in her job in the art gallery, she felt that warmth each day. It seemed only fitting that she should travel to Angel station, a sign, she sometimes thought, that someone was watching over her. She was jerked out of her thoughts by the lights coming back on. The train creaked back into action: a signal for the silence to end. “..this is not the end of the matter, I said…” “..my God, he’s got a long…” “he hasn’t…” “he has…” hoots of laughter. “..before that Angel had a single platform…” “will you give it a rest?” “but it’s interesting…” “not to me…” So Tom was right, her station probably did have a dangerous past. She was grateful to know it in better times. They passed on through
Belsize Park and Chalk Farm. Camden Town approached. The woman in red put her papers away in a few seconds. She stood up and marched to the doors. The man with greasy hair followed her, though the other Edgware people - the giggly girls, the elderly couple, the working women, the family - remained. A man in a brown suede jacket got on and sat in the seat vacated by the red-suited woman. The beat of music from his iPod was faintly audible. He closed his eyes, swaying to the tune in his head. A woman with long ginger hair sat next to Freya. Her hennaed arms embraced her black guitar case, as if cradling a child. Through a gap in the crowd, Freya had a clear view of the man opposite. He had stopped touching his rucksack. He wasn’t talking. Disconcertingly, as Freya looked at him, he stared straight back. His eyes were small black holes, devoid of life. They seemed to be viewing her as if she was nothing, nothing at all. She looked away. Suddenly, she felt frightened. My God, I’m not making it up. Now the train was moving again, everyone else seemed to have dismissed him as harmless. She, alone it seemed, felt the increase in pulse rate, the thumping beat of her heart. They passed through Euston. Her stomach filled with acid. She could feel the sweat trickling from her armpits onto her shirt. Don’t touch the bag, please don’t touch the bag. His hands were on the strap as his lips formed a thin, metallic smile. I’m being ridiculous. Even so, she found herself putting her book away, picking up her bag, and moving to the exit, as if some spirit had taken control of her body. The train passed into Kings Cross station and came to a juddering halt. She looked across at the man. His head was down again focussed once more on the bag. She ran out through the doors and onto the platform. As the swell of travellers pushed her along, she heard a tap on the window. It was the little boy. He waved at her but there
was no time to wave back. She was swept up by the throng, up, up, up, the series of escalators until she was expelled into Euston Road. She gasped a lungful of chip fat and petrol fumes, looking for someone to tell, to warn, to advise. Tell what exactly? A strange man on the tube made you nervous? Freya Wilson, you are one silly lass. She could hear Dad laughing at her. He was right of course, she had let her imagination create a fiction of the most terrifying sort. For a moment, she thought about going back. Then she realised that if she walked on she’d pass her favourite croissanterie. She set off towards Islington, shaking her head at her own foolishness.
Underneath her feet, the tube train passed out of the station. The man with the straggly beard looked up and down the carriage at his fellow passengers. He said something that no-one could quite make out, a prayer, a curse, a blessing? As they approached Angel station, he reached into his bag for the very last time. Virginia Moffatt was born in London, in 1965, one of eight children, including a twin sister who writes commerical fiction and an older sister who is a poet. Virginia works for Oxfordshire County Council and lives in Oxford with her husband Chris and their three children. She has achieved a Diploma in Creative Writing at Oxford University Department of Continuing Education and attended a Faber Academy Weekend Course in Paris. Virginia has written a number of short stories, and takes part in a regular online writing community, #Friday Flash online. She is currently working on a novel, “Echo Hall” and blogs at “A Room of My Own” (www.giniamoffatt.blogspot.com).
BLANKV Tides
I think of the sea often, Of its gun metal skin that matches the sky Of its roaring and kiss, sluicing ‘twixt stone Of its foam that would spit like a drunk at a bar
And I see my Father there Striding off over stones, all limbs Striking out into the wide, lonely plane Strolling, waving, buffeted by breeze
I think of the beach too Of its crunch underfoot, my unsteady gait Of its wind chiselled cheeks, scarred by spray Of its arching sweep that folds you in
Now I go to the beach And I see the sea But there’s nothing there It’s lonely, just me.
KVERSE A Sestina for Modern Lovers
It began, very modern, with a text. Having begun, progressed on the internet Using chats, email, until Skype Brought us together. Then with travel Hours across country, listening to my iPod Till finally, on the wall, was you.
I remember you getting back, listening to your iPod, Kissing, hugging me; “You look better than on Skype…” Or sitting on my chair, looking on the internet, When, out of the shower, turban on, behind me, was you. “You mostly *wink*” was what you did, sent by text and how often you saw me, such travel!
Now I must live without you Having fallen out over text Now breakup songs are on my iPod. I wonder, looking for signs on the internet; “Have I made a gulf we cannot travel?” I hope not. I want to talk. Maybe on Skype?
But now, after all that expensive travel Running down batteries on our iPods Flirting and courting and ‘kisses’ by text Taking screenshots of me on Skype I now have lost it all. I just wanted you Even from miles away. Lovers on the internet.
If I were to ask you to come on Skype, Would you? Is it too much to ask? Would you? I could meet you? Doesn’t matter the distance or travel. We can meet where you like. Or do this by text? I’m sick of trying to divine on the internet How you feel and what’s on your iPod.
A blank, empty void proves to be the internet Now no buses, trains or planes travel Anywhere near as close as I was to you. I never got the chance to swap iPods Or watch you dance and laugh on Skype. All this from a single, simple text; “Night x”
All these things: the internet, your iPod Our travel and skype, mean nothing. I just want you back, starting with a single, simple text.
BLANKV Don’t
He lies there, on my bed, in the morning. One arm is raised, held out to stop me from Continuing. “Please stop.” He burbles through Split lips, blood dribbling from his mouth, unable To stop it pooling there and straining through Cracked teeth. Both eyes are blackened and hooded, Bruises widen on his cheeks. Possibly His jaw is broken too, judging by the Way he clenches it. His clothes have been torn, Wounds peeping out through gaps in the fabric Allowing them to weep freely over Mottled pink and purple skin and gaping Sores. His left hand rests useless by his side A result of its dislocation no Doubt. He wheezes in gasps so short and sharp The fractured rib poking his heaving lung. His leg at an awkward angle, splintered, Turned out, so he cannot run, just lie there. Tears pour weakly down those bruised cheeks, as he
Looks at me, pleading, hoping there is some Way of making me stop before organs Are ruptured, his insides pooling with blood. I stand at the foot of my bed breathing Thickly with impassioned lungs, like a horse Fresh from racing, sweating, steaming and high. My knuckles are split and sore, they should sting But my intent rests with him on the bed. For a long time we stare at each other. Cold, pitiless, hating, tireless, waiting. Afraid, weak, pained, shattered, sad and broken Is one and the other but which is which? He stares and says; “Why are you doing this?” I stare back; “Because you deserve it.” He shakes his broken head saying “No I don’t.” “No I don’t,” I agree. “I don’t deserve this.” “Then why are we here?” The empty sheets stare back at me. There’s no one there. Yet my knuckles still sting.
KVERSE Leo Cookman was born in Cambridge in a decade he wishes the world would forget (the 80’s) and lived in a seaside village in Kent for a long time before moving to Manchester, as he had never met anyone “from the colonies” before. Leo, as well as writing lots of poetry, plays music in bands, takes photos with cameras, makes short films with his computer and has written three novels “because he was bored”. The only competition he ever won was for Poetry when he was 12. So, fifteen years later he is deciding to pursue this avenue of lucrative adulation by writing poems about being a ‘man’ in the modern world or if it is, in fact, possible. Leo also has published a politically influenced Poetry Pamphlet entitled ‘At The End of Days…’ if you would like to read more. Find further word abuse at: delaypedalforthesoul.blogspot.com thiswrittenriver.wordpress.com
Stanley Chow My career effectively began when I started DJing in Night & Day CafĂŠ on Oldham Street in 1996. In DJing, I also ended up designing flyers and posters for various clubnights in Night & Day and then gradually for more and more different venues and bars around Manchester.
In 1999, The Central Illustration Agency (CIA) started representing me. This was a massive career change. The CIA was a great help in getting new work and opening doors. I experienced so many different fields within illustration. The kind of work I was initially getting was editorial fashion illustration... being commissioned by the likes of GQ, Elle, Marie Claire, Company magazine and Marks & Spencers. Then I had a spell storyboarding adverts for Saatchi & Saatchi. I’ve produced a few children’s books, book covers too amongst many other things. By 2001, Bernstein and Andriulli were representing me in America. They are a huge agency that represent Photographers, Stylists, Artists and Illustrators. Since then my client base has grown and I have been commissioned by Vodafone, BT, Volkswagen, BBC, The Government. My work can be regularly seen in various national newspapers and magazines.
In 2007, I designed a limited edition USB stick for the White Stripes to coincide with the release of their album ‘Icky Thump’. It was nominated for a Grammy Award, in a design category.... It didn’t win unfortunately, but it did open a few doors. 2008 for about 18 months, I started collaborating with my best friend from school Barney Ibbotson... we worked under the moniker of Stanley & Barney. The projects we worked on was to give me more of an opportunity to flex my design muscles as much as using my illustrative skills. We produced websites, flyers and posters, logos and sleeve artwork for bands as well as new illustrations. Some of this work can now be seen in the Temple of Convenience.
Now in 2010... The recession has hit quite hard. The work I’ve produced over the last 10 years or so have been commissioned, or my portfolio has been specifically geared to be quite fashionable, so to help me gain more commissions... there was never really an opportunity for me to do what I really want. Caricatures was always my first love. It was something I did with much success at school... It was something that earned me free beers when doing caricatures of barmaids when I was young and skint. But I never had the confidence to go down this route professionally... Mainly because I didn’t think I was good enough... There were so many great caricaturists around the time I left Art School, I just thought I won’t bother. But having recently been commissioned by the BBC to produce caricatures of Dr Who and Graham Norton for their idents last Spring.. I’ve decided now that caricatures is the direction for me, after being quite directionless for many years. Because the recession has affected my profession, selling prints of my caricatures now is my main source of income... But the beauty of this is that I’ve finally found what I really want to do.
“If you dare to love yourself and transcend the ego, then let
(THIS MONTH’S MP3)
get under your skin”
Mammoth Mountain By caro snatch
I am mammoth mountain My ravishing ravines Sculpted by glacial tears. Ice caps pin-pointed The oceans can breathe The sky, the skies It clears. Feed from me Bask in me Bathe in me Rest on me You’ve been needing this for years. Breathe with me Come with me Smile with me Sleep deep on me And we can sleep for years.
I am mammoth black mountain My treasured trees nestle beneath my skin The leaves fill their veins The fruits plump and sweet, Needles to say My juices are the sheen. I…I…I… I love you Because I love me I can love you As I learn to love me. (I can merely learn to love me) Breathe with me Come with me Smile with me Sleep deep on me And we can sleep for years.
Glean all you need from my marvellous minerals Your burdened seed insignificant to bear. Is greed not merely a hanker A need unable to feed? Go ahead snatch a rock for your pocket Rock it your pocket Harbour me in your palm. For I am always in you I can always be in you You shall never Never Tire my balm. Ready steady You don’t have to go. Ready steady Glow…
Words by Elaine Wilson
caro snatch is a musician and
spoken word artist unlike most who are performing today. Although difficult to define, caro’s music comes from such a personal and authentic place, that it’s hard not to hear anything that resonates with your own circumstances. Many people sing about pain or heartbreak, however with caro you get the impression that she is coming from somewhere else; awareness of the difficulties in life but with a desire to use these difficulties, being proactive enough to move on from the dark moments without wallowing in them. This of course is how caro began her journey. Recovering from spinal surgery obviously doesn’t allow for a lot of moving around, but it does allow for a lot of contemplation and creative thinking. caro discusses this and more, giving us an insight into her musical processes, why she creates music and what to expect from her latest album.
The new album, ‘Til you’re no longer blinkered’ is due for release on CD in December. Can it be summed up in a few sentences? And does it differ from your previous releases? Well, the album has been available online since November and we are making some rather special limited edition CDs which can be ordered now through the Bandcamp caro snatch page, to be despatched on Dec 3. The originally planned live show #1 will have to be put back until next year now as I am undergoing more spinal surgery. The theme of the album is all about nurture thyself. All this came about thanks to my ‘incurable’ chronic pain which has invited me to befriend my inner landscape while spending a lot of time horizontal and at home alone. Hence, through stillness and self-examination/reflection I have learned to like myself a little more and this reaps rewards for both me and in my relationships with others.
I guess it differs from previous output in that there is an overall intention/mood to the album and of course I hope I have developed as an artist & engineer. Unlike the more punky and urgent stuff I have hitherto released, this is a more gentle collection of tracks that touch on the above mentioned theme in terms of lyrics & instrumentation as well as more technical aspects such as EQ and panning etc. I wanted each track to be big and round with a warm sheen. What are the driving forces that help you create your music? Ooh erm… one can be rational and analytical about this but I think I probably don’t really know the answer to that one. I suspect it is about communication, exploration of language, words and sounds. Perhaps I do have a universal purpose or perhaps I’m just satisfying my own need to make some noise and want others to hear it.
There’s a combination of spoken word and actual singing depending on the track, how do you know when it’s time to speak or to sing? Most of the time it is intuitive I reckon. Also I started off doing spoken word and am still daring myself to sing more as I develop my voice and its more feral leanings. However it can be a conscious decision. For ‘Mary Rose’ - a track on the album about the restoration of a shipwreck – I knew I wanted it to start with more monotone spoken word and then let a melody emerge as a way of lightening up the story a bit. This brings us on to another contrast; traditional sounds of piano and violin mixed with electronic and synth. What do you enjoy working with more? Or do they naturally come together? I started out as a lone electronica lady tinkering with hardware devices like a synth, drum machines and effects pedals listening to the likes of Boards of Canada and Bjork. I then added my voice (often with effects). Since spending 18 months in studios recording others and acoustic instruments I got more into the harmonics and sound
of the material the instrument is made of. I’ve particularly indulged with this album as a score of musically talented “good eggs” have contributed, making it more interesting, musical and colourful I hope. It makes for a more interesting palette than digital samples of these instruments. I therefore enjoy blending or juxtaposing them together and hope they come together, albeit perhaps not naturally. I do actually like the old classical maxim of tension and release, dissonance heals sometimes. You have many strings to your bow: musician, artist, sound engineer, workshop facilitator, have these various roles developed independently of each other, or more as a natural progression from one to another? Well opportunities present themselves and some I went looking for. I found myself going down the sound/music route by accident in the first place so feel I have been lucky to explore many avenues of my passions and been offered some enjoyable work. I love creating my own stuff and finding new ways of expressing myself, and I really get off on recording/mixing for others and the workshops are a fun way to share
and create with others too. It’s all part and parcel of the fun really and feeds me as a creative and interacting soul. You describe yourself as ‘mid-wife to the realisation of others’ ideas, passions and expressions’, do you find being a producer to other people’s work different to producing your own work, and if so where does the difference lay? When you are enabling others to realise their vision or potential it’s about feeling where they are on their journey and where they want to be. I do enjoy being an assistant in this way and of course I learn a lot too. With my own stuff, I usually have a vision of what I want to make and then I challenge myself as to how to do this. With this album for example I knew which instruments I wanted in each track and then asked each person I knew who played these to come add to the mix. I didn’t totally dictate what I wanted but they all came up with what I knew was needed. OK, now I must be sounding well poncy. I guess when I produce my own stuff I try to fulfill that artist & engineer role though perhaps I could do with someone I respect saying ‘you can do that vocal better’ or ‘you should try that’. If Brian Eno happens to be reading this…
“When you are enabling others to realise their vision or potential it’s about feeling where they are on their journey and where they want to be”
You spent time and performed in Berlin after being awarded a travel and training grant from the Arts Council. Are the music scenes in Manchester and Berlin very different, and do you find yourself taking a different musical direction now you’re in Manchester? I do believe in psycho - but I’m not so sure how to define the differences. In Berlin, being female and doing electronic stuff is not such an issue and there is no ego massage or British politeness out there. I think the issue of cost of renting space makes a difference to the DIY possibilities. And yes there are a lot more bonkers performers out there. A lot of UK venues and promoters play it too safe for my liking. But then there is a lot going on in Berlin but also a lot of ad hoc stuff that can be disappointing. Think that’s enough sweeping generalisations for one day. I suspect my musical directions will always be evolving and changing, I think I would get bored if I didn’t stretch myself. So much to explore, learn and mistress…
It’s widely accepted that you’re an original and innovative musical artist. What is it that you do differently? Mmm interesting one. I am still a bit taken aback with the regular accusations of being so different and try not to interpret your music is mad as myself being diagnosed with insanity. Of course, I don’t feel what I do is strange, it makes perfect nonsense to me. I understand that what I do is very intuitive and I am not interested in duplicating what has come before. And I do admire those that bring together ‘weird’ with accessible such as Bjork, Radiohead and some of George Martin’s production techniques. I think some may find challenging/daring the way I quite often choose not to adhere to formulas or genres. For example song structure, sticking to scales and the like. Again this is more intuitive than rebellious ‘maverick’ intentions (or is it?). I just bring together and like to juxtapose elements from the array of musical worlds I like to complete a story that I want to tell as fully as I can. There are methods to my madness most of the time you see.
Perhaps ‘method to my madness’ is a good place to start with caro’s music. The first track off Til you’re no longer blinkered is Mammoth Mountain. It has an almost familiar lilting sound but is made strange by the simultaneously dreamy yet distinct and firm vocals. The words are a poem and stand on their own separately from the music. The contradictions and opposites, the ‘madness’ as Caro describes it appear perfectly natural within the context of this music. Inspired by various different artists but definitely its own thing, not forced but like caro says ‘intuitive’. This goes for the whole album, each song has its own signature, interesting to listen to for different reasons. As ‘Mammoth Mountain’ is this month’s mp3 you will have an idea of what to expect and if that tickles your fancy Til you’re no longer blinkered can be listened to and snatched at www.carosnatch.bandcamp. com
Hive Gallery By Andy Nzinski
I remember being a small child, around the age of seven, itching to pick up a pencil and sketch at any opportune moment, a young art enthusiast in the making. My first trip to my town’s art gallery was something of a delight for a young artist such as myself and I remember it being a magical experience that enthused my passions even more. Of course over the years, and as the innocence of a child’s ignorance of the world faded, I realized more and more that my old post-mining era town’s council-owned establishment, and sole art gallery, held little more than affably modest crafts, figurative paintings and watercolour landscapes for the amusement of the locals. I should think the best way in which I could describe it would be a tabloid-style anti-Turner Prize; a collection of everything its artistically indifferent critics claim the internationally revered show lacks.
Peter Blake
The last thing I’m trying to imply is that the gallery was terrible, in fact it did, and still does, everything it was required to do - to please the crowd, to give them what they wanted, only, what they wanted was certainly not contemporary art. Yet, Barnsley is not the same place it once was. Today the town now boasts a contemporary art gallery, film festivals, a community itching to quickly erect DIY temporary galleries, and even a prize celebrating Northern artists; and it all has something to do with a small project space in the far flung region of Elsecar. Oddly placed for a contemporary gallery, the Hive stands amidst industrial chimneys and decommissioned ironworks, and above its white inner enclosures are the stone walls of the old barn house it has been built inside. It announces the subtle changes necessary for the town and an amalgamation of the new and the old. There is no mistaking it, you know instantly when you see it, the Hive has a plan.
Starting in 2007 as a series of artist networking events under the name Creative Barnsley, the brainchild of Patrick Murphy and Tracey Johnson slowly grew out of the Western world’s most potent fuel; demand. “HIVE was born out of a desire to see quality contemporary art exhibitions in Barnsley.” Patrick tells me, “Before HIVE there was only really the Cooper Gallery which is a municipal council gallery, so its program is very varied and doesn’t have a particular focus.” From the desire sprung a studio system (a first for Barnsley) and a gallery to complement it; the idea to create a contemporary home for artists and a focused art community where historically there had been none. HIVE’s program hardly falls sort either, bringing in both the art-world’s heavy hitters and a collection of the freshest new talent. “This year we’ve had 8 shows, we’re balancing established artists with more emerging artists, which broadens the audience. Those who come to see Sir Peter
Adrian Pritchard
Blake and Patrick Caulfield return to see
Patrick Caulfield
lesser known artists so we’re connecting
using contemporary art to conceptually
new talent and to provide a community
viewer to new works, it’s being clever with
look back at this past industry. I think we
for artists to thrive in and push forward
what we have.” The effect is noticeable,
have changed some people’s perceptions of
in their careers. These goals exceed the
artists such as Lesley Halliwell and Adrian
Barnsley – it’s common to hear visitors say
gallery through alternative projects such as
Pritchard shown at the HIVE are certainly
that they didn’t expect to find something
the formation of CAB (Contemporary Arts
achieving new markets with their work and
like HIVE here.”
Barnsley), a collective of artists based in
maximizing their exposure.
It’s a struggle indeed, but on a strangely
the town and want to get things moving in
But setting up shop in a town made
reversed scale; for a gallery which is
terms of organising shows and establishing
famous by the miners strikes of the 1980s
mentioned regularly in the Guardian
a thriving and active community – “a sort of
and the arial exploits of Kes is no easy task,
Culture Guide and attracts viewers from
growth process from HIVE really”, he adds.
with a population largely disinterested
around the country, it seems bizarre that
Causing a larger impact is Patrick’s
in contemporary art, and who have little
the local populace needs more convincing
Northern Futures Awards which came to
desire to be ‘saved’, it takes a more subtle
than outsiders, but then again, what similar
a head this August, celebrating the best
and understanding approach, and a distinct
points of reference have they had in the
the North had to offer in the creative
self-awareness of the gallery’s situation and
past? It simply fuels HIVE’s interesting
industries. “I wanted to create a creative
the conflicts between its heritage and its
ongoing dialogue with its surroundings.
award for the north of England that shouted
future. “It’s always going to be difficult,
Then again, the goals of the gallery are
about the emerging talent from the area”
what we try to do is provide exhibitions
hardly to win popularity contests in the
he states, “Northern Futures is an open
that cause dialogue around ‘what is con-
tone of a local beauty pageant (yes we
competition for 21-40 year olds. In its first
temporary art’. Some of our exhibitions
have one), but rather it’s the difference for
year the four categories were Fine art,
have been challenging, such as Mark Fell’s
Barnsley, and for emerging artists, that the
Fashion, Film and 3D Design it was a big
sound installation; visiting HIVE means
establishment churns out on a regular basis
success. We’re planning another next year,
you experience art in an unexpected way.
that scores real points. Still playing true to
adding categories of Graphic Design and
There are also exhibitions such as Black
the hungry art community that demanded
Music - hopefully we can help find the new
Gold, looking at Barnsley’s mining heritage
the gallery, the focus is the promotion of
Smiths or New Order! The North does and
has always had enormous creative energy.
is growing nationally and internationally,
It’s exciting stuff, so I can’t help but ask
Northern Futures provides a platform
I’m very pleased with how its going and
what is next for the gallery, “Next year we’re
for Northern artists and designers to be
there’s much scope to help develop the
creating a project called MADE looking at
seen and for their voice to be heard.” The
filmmaking and animation sectors, and
how contemporary artists, designers and
Oscar-style award show brought in judges
provide educational opportunities.”
makers sell their work,” Patrick tells me,
from esteemed astablishments such as the
Again, whilst HIVE promotes the careers
“we want to create a platform within HIVE
BALTIC, Yorkshire Sculpture Park, Axis,
of young and emerging artists in a direct
to show and sell their work.” Not only that
Comme Ca Art, and the Walker Gallery
manner through its studio systems and
but the gallery looks to be opening a second
harbouring several deals between the
events, it does so indirectly by working
space within the town centre for a more
nominees and these institutions, providing a
towards changing the usual perceptions
centralised focus on the local populace, it is
jump start to many young careers, including
of the town and its inhabitance, Barnsley
what the town needs, as whilst the HIVE’s
awarding BlankPages cover artist Liz West
artists are now taken more seriously and
influence has spread around the town’s large
with the coveted People’s Choice award -
less likely to be mothballed for big city
borough, the real target is the town centre,
not a bad start for the prize’s first year.
types. “I think this kind of work is essential
and it is where the real difference can be
to allow future generations to escape the
made, through the use of more effective,
Animation
Barnsley stereotype, both how we perceive
but less conventional means. “We’re
Festival, also hosted in the Barnsley, in
ourselves and how others perceive us.”
looking at other spaces to expand to the
order to push awareness of the animated
he says, “Coming from Barnsley used to
town centre and experiment with the idea
arts. Now in its second year the show has
have a huge cultural stigma. The fact that
of pop up galleries in strange spaces taking
managed to secure heavyweight films such
it now supports a film festival and is host
art into a more urban open environment,
as Disney/Pixar UK premiers and Oscar
for Northern Futures is very important in
where people don’t expect to see it” - the
Winners H5 along with independently
creating a cultural step change in allowing
HIVE is going guerilla!
financed filmakers, many of who were still
Barnsley realise what it is and where it’s
in education. And the festival has high hopes
going.”
The duo have also developed the Small World
International
Short
for the future of the town: ‘The reputation
Gallery, artist springboard, social critique on the old versus the new - the HIVE is many things (and they’re all debatable,
especialy in this town), but we’ll just have to wait and see how far its reach can extend. It doesn’t phase Patrick though, in fact he seems contently oblivious. Against the difficulties of bringing culture to a place where it wasn’t previously in demand, he appears more attentive to the benefits for the artists and audience, and HIVE’s creation of a community that people want to be part of. “It’s a little oasis of contemporary art”, he says with a smile. The Hive Gallery is currently showing works by Paul Merrick until the 19th December, and is located in the Elsecar Heritage Centre. www.northernfutures.co.uk www.smallworldfest.co.uk www.hivegallery.co.uk www.creativebarnsley.co.uk
The Manchester Blogosphere By Matthew Hull The Manchester blogosphere is a pretty big deal. Hundreds of people, natives or naturalised citizens of the rainy city, sit down and tap out their thoughts and opinions. They write variously – on music, on art, on food, on football, on literature, on shopping. Then when they are finished they punch out their thoughts and opinions on other people’s thoughts and opinions. Sometimes I like to imagine the blogosphere as a second, invisible Manchester made of code and opinion and embedded videos of cats floating just above the city. Like any good city it is populated by the independently minded. There are sleek and modern developments sitting cheek by jowl with
well-loved permanent fixtures. The seminal postmodern writer Italo Calvino imagined a city whose blueprints were the very constellations in the night’s sky. Eighties hitmakers Starship imagined a city built on rock and roll. The blogosphere falls somewhere between the two. In this hypothetical city of I choose to imagine Not Exactly True as a knockedtogether shack marked ‘Information’ where Bristol Prize-winning author Valerie O’Riordan can dispense advice, twisted-up stories and sketchy maps biroed on the back of beermats. Here she talks to us about her experience of writing a blog and lets us in on her favourite Manchester blog...
Valerie O’Riordan My blog is a holding-pen for all the writingrelated detritus that occurs to me on a daily (or, ahem, weekly) basis. I started it in 2008 as a way to help promote my short fiction and group together links to any online publications in which my work has appeared; it progressed as a ramshackle account of my various success and catastrophes, and didn't take coherent shape until the autumn of 2009, when I began my Creative Writing MA in the University of Manchester. While I was researching writing degrees, I found a dearth of information about them online. Sure, there were official course brochures, and countless broadsheet diatribes proclaiming that IT CAN'T BE TAUGHT! and advising prospective students to save their pennies and shut themselves in their attics instead with a stale packet of Jammy Dodgers, a fountain pen and a vat of ink for company. That way lies Graft and Discipline and Literary Esteem. Having committed to a course,
however, and laid my pennies on the line, I thought I'd try to rectify the balance – and so I used my blog as a course diary for a year, describing our seminars, what goes on in a writing workshop, the types of visiting lectures we had, and, above all, detailing the course-load of reading and writing that the MA demanded. My hope was that a future applicant might stumble across my site and find the whole post-graduate adventure somewhat demystified. I've had feedback from readers that suggests that might be the case, and if so, if they haven't simply taken pity on me and lied, two enthusiastic thumbs up! Nowadays, I'm writing more about my own work again, and trying to link to other sites that would be helpful to emerging writers like myself. The most positive aspect of the whole experience has been the amount of virtual friends I've made via the blog; the writing community, especially its Manchester incarnation, is very internet
savvy and startlingly (to this recovering misanthropic recluse) friendly. I write about personal stuff as well as literary gubbins, although I keep the information vague enough that I hope I've left no open doors for creepy stalkers. The title of the blog, Not Exactly True, hints to the fact that I'm a fiction writer rather than a diarist. One of my current favourite Manchester blogs (and it's hard to limit myself to one) was short-listed for this year's Manchester Blog awards. Who The Fudge Is Benjamin Judge is funny and sharp and (very important to this attentian-deficit internet addict) updated frequently. Ben uploads his own writing, rants about politics, talks about the Manchester literary scene, and even ran a literary World Cup this summer. Keep an eye on this one. And on me, of course. www.not-exactly-true.blogspot.com www.benjaminjudge.wordpress.com
Forthcoming Events THE OTHER ROOM The Old Abbey Inn, Manchester, December 1 - 7pm The Other Room is a reading series presenting experimental writers at The Old Abbey Inn in Manchester. Featuring Ken Edwards, Neil Addison and Louise Woodcock. www.otherroom.org
IAI PRESENTS The Tudor House Hotel, Wigan December 9 - 7pm Imploding Acoustic Inevitable present another wonderful slab of emerging musical talent including Viking Moses, Withered Hand and Underground River. www.myspace.com/implodingacousticinevitable CONTEMPORARY ART AUCTION
THE PENNY READINGS St George’s Hall, Liverpool December 5 - 6.30pm Featuring readings from Frank Cottrell Boyce (Millions, Cosmic) and Angela Macmillan (A Little, Aloud), the awardwinning Mersey Harmony Singers, the famous raffle, and much more... www.events.thereader.org.uk
Chinese Art Centre, Manchester December 2 - 6pm Proceeds from the auction will support cutting-edge developments in our artistic programme and allow us to develop new commissions in collaboration with the most exciting new talent emerging from the dynamic contemporary Chinese art world. The works are also on view in the gallery. www.auction.chinese-arts-centre.org
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PAUL MERRICK
Hive Gallery, Barnsley Runs ‘til December 19 Paul Merrick’s continued interrogation of painting and process has seen him evolve from working exclusively with oil paint and two-dimensions to a broader enquiry of what painting is and pushing his practice into new territories. This solo exhibition at HIVE Gallery presents new works and includes paintings, sculpture and the made with the ready-made. www.hivegallery.co.uk GROTTO
Mooch Gallery, Manchester GROTTO is brand new pop-up artists shop-cum-gallery-space in Manchester’s Northern Quarter. Pop in to get the best unique Christmas presents, cards and wrapping paper- all lovingly made by Manchester artists. www.grotto-shop.com
NAM JUNE PIAK Liverpool Tate and FACT December 17 - March 31, 2011 The first UK retrospective of the work of the renowned video artist Nam June Piak whose work, and sometimes cultural criticism, is credited with predicting the rise and ubiquity of the internet. LISA V ROBINSON: RHYTHMICAL SURFACES
The Bowery, Leeds Runs ‘til December 31 Rhythmical surfaces will be showcasing several new oil on canvas paintings by emerging contemporary artist Lisa V Robinson. Her expressive work celebrates painting itself as an essentially physical and sensual process. Various sources, such as shop front windows, are used to create an inner vocabulary of visual language, comprising of; forms, lines and gestures, that can then be recalled automatically during the painting process. www.thebowery.org
ANATOMY OF AN INSTITUTION
SAFE
Holden Gallery, Manchester November 18 - December 15 A portrait of a University made through a collection of black & white and colour portraits produced using a victorian studio plate camera. By Gavin Parry and Dave Penny www.holdengallery.mmu.ac.uk s.smith@salford.ac.uk
Kraak Gallery, Manchester December 8 - 22 Coinciding with its 1st birthday celebrations, Kraak Gallery is proud to present the “Super Awesome Fun Exhibition” – an international group show of four artists with installation work, photography and video. www.kraak.co.uk
FRANKOPHILIA!
PAST PRESENT PERFECT
Chapman Gallery, Salford Runs ‘til December 18 Earlier this year, fans responded to the sad news of the death of Frank Sidebottom’s creator, Chris Sievey, with a touchingly creative mourning. Images of all kinds of Frank-inspired objects made their way on-line; artwork made in response to the news, or years previously out of sheer Frank-love.
Manchester Craft and Design Centre Runs ‘til January 29, 2011 Past Present Perfect showcases work from nine contemporary designers and makers who choose tradition and heritage as a focal point for their work. Exhibitors record, comment on and push perceptions of heritage, in ceramics, wood, textiles, plastics and found objects. www.craftanddesign.com
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Featured Event
Ear to the Ground?
BLANKEXPRESSION 2011 CALL FOR ENTRIES Deadline: December 12 After four years of championing emerging artists, Blank Media Collective is now introducing BLANKSPACE, a new creative hub in Manchester. To launch BLANKSPACE we are inviting emerging artists to submit work to BlankExpression open exhibition. BlankExpression is an open call-out to creative practitioners working in any media. From artists to architects, musicians to makers, sculptors to scientists, filmmakers to fashion designers, poets to performance artists and everything in-between. The space presents a wide range of opportunities for multidisciplinary practices both on an intimate and a more ambitious scale. There are no rules so get creative! Blank Media Collective is returning to the title of our first ever exhibition, BlankExpression which took place at Zion Arts Centre, Manchester in July 2007.
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To include your event or recommend someone else’s in a future issue just email editor@blankmediacollective.org with your event title, location, date, time and a short description (max 100 words).
Blank Media Collective Team: Director: Mark Devereux Financial Administrator: Martin Dale Development Coordinators: Dwight Clarke Communications Coordinators: Stephanie Graham, Jo Foxall & Dan English Information Manager: Sylvia Coates Website Designer: Simon Mills Moving Image Coordinator: Christina Millare BlankMarket Coordinator: Michael Valks Exhibition Coordintors: Jamie Hyde, Marcelle Holt, Claire Curtin, Rachael Farmer & Taneesha Ahmed Live Music Coordinator: Iain Goodyear Official Photographer: Gareth Hacking
blankpages Team: Editor: John Leyland Editorial Assistant: Matt Hull Fiction Editor: Kevin Bradshaw Poetry Editor: Abigail Ledger-Lomas Music Editor: Dan Bridgwood-Hill Visual Editors / Designers: Henry Roberts & Michael Thorp
BLANK MEDIA IS KINDLY SUPPORTED BY LAZY DASIES &